A Breath from the Veldt 231 



the old man fired while I hesitated, not being quite sure that it was not one of 

 the donkeys that had got loose. Then there was a scramble in the dark, and 

 the animal suddenly disappeared. We saw next morning where he had stood, 

 but no sign of his having been touched. 



The Shangan said all the natives who had been living at the M Tape's 

 Mountain near to the water had trekked away to the east beyond Sabi, as last 

 autumn a big raiding party of Matabele had come up and killed about half of 

 them, and run off with the women and all they could lay hands on. 



Just as we were ready to start next morning our guide turned up, bringing 

 with him five other natives, amongst whom was one " Chele," the finest savage 

 I have ever seen. He was about 6 feet 3 inches in height, and perfectly pro- 

 portioned, having moreover an exceedingly good-looking face of the old Roman 

 type. If this were a novel for good little schoolgirls I might even go so far 

 as to say, he was as handsome as a young Greek god — say one of the Greek 

 gods whose type of beauty finds so much favour in certain feminine minds, and 

 is so useful to the modern novelist in search of an ideal. If the latter were to 

 describe any one type of manly beauty that he himself admired, the chances 

 are he would only please a few, whereas if he falls back on the never-failing 

 young Greek god, he is sure to be all right. 



Anyhow Chele was as handsome as they make 'em nowadays ; but (alas ! 

 that I should say it) he was a big liar, and generally drunk — from pombe when 

 he could get it — or half mad by constantly smoking " daha," a narcotic prepara- 

 tion somewhat resembling opium. We saw a good deal of Chele after this, 

 and though he was a beautiful panther-like creature to look at, we disliked him 

 more and more every time he appeared. 



Another of the natives had a most comical face, lighted up with a perennial 

 smile of extreme good -nature and urbanity, while surmounting his noble 

 physiognomy was a literal crown — a gem in its way — made out of a card of 

 buttons. The cardboard, with the buttons outside (just as they had left some 

 Birmingham shop) was neatly wrapt round his head and fastened at the back, 

 forming about as comical a decoration as I ever saw. It was the sort of royal 

 head-dress that Arthur Roberts would affect in impersonating some great 

 monarch. 



Our guide led us through some more bad bush and very long grass, which 

 at times entirely hid the little donkeys ; but after a tramp of about three hours 

 we emerged once more in a great open country — a huge plain of long grass, 

 dotted with small wait-a-bits and red bush as far as the eye could reach, and 



